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Light through the rose window on the south transept at York Minster.
Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802
Earth has not any thing to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!
William Wordsworth.
The Spire
It’s very early and it’s very cold. I turn over in my bed and can just make out the silhouette of a tree through the side window of my van. I need to get up and get going, but the darkness and the cold impedes. I put on the heater for five minutes and then get dressed, brush my teeth. I just need to get going—once I’m on the road, I’m fine.
I turn the van around into day mode, fire up the engine, and begin my journey back to base camp in Bury. As I ease along the side road that threads towards the A55, the horizon begins to loosen—a faint ember of warmth edges the hills.
“And I’ll show you a sunset, if you’ll stay with me till dawn.”
Words and notes drift out from my playlist in pathetic fallacy. I love these moments in Woody—held in suspension, within the instrument-lit cocoon of the van—music on, the world outside slipping past like a scrolling script. I’m looking forward to coffee and breakfast, but before I do, I need to put some miles beneath the wheels.
Travelling east along the A55 in North Wales is like skimming the rim of a great earthen bowl, with the ancient landscape sweeping away on either side in sculpted folds.
And then, without warning - a chiaroscuro. The landscape delivers its crescendo: the spire of the Marble Church piercing the firmament from a brace of gargoyles, that project above a dip in the distant Clwydian hills. It’s surrounded by the most luminous gold—one of those rare lightscapes where time is stoppered within the confines of a moment. The hills behind, etched with the remnants of Offa’s Dyke and the ghost forms of ancient forts, bear names as old and earth-bound as the gorse and heather that cling to the steep valley sides—Caer Drewyn, Penycloddiau, Moel Famau.
They are names that, upon pronunciation, ignite a faint echo, a correspondence within, but it’s the spire that pins me to the present moment.
I find myself wondering how—and why—we came to build such exquisitely evocative, intricately crafted, and undeniably costly structures. And then I’m reminded of the words of Julio Bermudez:
“We know from thousands of years of history that people have spent their best resources and incredible amounts of time to design and construct architecture that allows people to access states of being or understanding that are spiritual—feelings such as calmness, awe. Wonder, enlightenment. Well-being, wholeness, joy.”
Perhaps it’s in this light that such buildings make sense—not only as art forms, but as anchors for communities. Places that are constantly allowing other ideas to take shape. No matter what their original purpose, they have helped to reignite shared intent, carried forward traditions, absorbed memory, and offered a social cohesion that quietly counters isolation and self-interest. In the long view of our evolution, unresolved division is far more costly than the effort it takes to foster connection through our culture, our craft, and our collective acts of meaning-making. Far more costly than making, using, conserving and protecting places like this.
Seen from the bubble of my van, this building in this light feels like a revelation—so sharp, so startling, that I feel the strongest urge to capture the moment, so that I might bottle it and use it in more shrouded times, like a candle in the darkness.
When I arrive at the church, the spire rises above me, unwavering, pushing into the blue. I’m now deep within the bowl of land I skirted only moments ago, and, as I prepare my drone to take flight, I know exactly what I’m searching for—the dip in the Clwydians that held the moment from my van’s perspective. I fly the drone, skim it around the church's perimeter, and then I find the sweet spot.
There they are—the gargoyles again, standing sentinel beneath four pinnacles that pin the spire to the ground, but coax the eye upwards into the joyous culmination of the building. Its spire is so evocatively set against the golden hour that it looks as though it has been stitched into heaven with its cusping.
I press the shutter button on my remote and pocket the image forever.
Camera in the air suspended, marks the place where this story ended - and my photograph started.
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Your support helps to keep the Genius Loci Digest free and public-facing, keeps Woody on the road, and fuels Member Powered Photography—where I carry out professional photo shoots for historic places at no cost.
It also allows me to continue tracing those fleeting moments when place, time and light align to reveal something quietly profound.
St Margaret's Church, Bodelwyddan, Wales.
The Marble Church, or St Margaret’s, in Bodelwyddan, Denbighshire, is known for its 202-foot spire and lavish marble interior. Completed in 1860, it was built in memory of Lord Willoughby de Broke. The churchyard contains over 80 Canadian war graves, linked to nearby Kinmel Camp during the First World War.
Moel Hiraddug, Penycloddiau, Moel Fenlli—and the saw-toothed remnants of Offa’s Dyke—stand as reminders of how the Clwydian range has long been shaped by human hands. There’s something in the zesty contrast between that deep-rooted history and the sharp Victorian thrust of the Marble Church that speaks to me.
So, after getting my gargoyle shot, I set about, like a conductor on a podium, pulling together all this complexity into a harmonious whole. I move the camera closer to the spire, stitching the ancient hills into the fabric of the church—the bold, curvilinear, neolithic landscape set against the faceted lines of Victorian perpendicular.
With the last of the shadows behind me, as well as sculpt the scene—I script the light. I draw the pastel hues from the Dee Estuary into the labyrinth of stone.
The interplay of structure and colour brings to mind another moment, years ago, when I photographed the iron bridge at Ironbridge during twilight. The tracery-like iron decoration, silhouetted against the dusk, echoed the kind of sacred geometry I see in stained glass windows.
And again, last year, in Norwich Cathedral - the emotional impact of walking through the north aisle bathed in the vibrant light of John McLean's Trinity windows. The presence of absence.
The coming together of all these thoughts—the pattern and form, and particularly the intensity of the light—reminded me of a kind of light some might say was a divine light.
Divine Light: The Stained Glass of England’s Cathedrals.
This month, I will be visiting ten English cathedrals to take photographs to feature in Janet Gough's forthcoming book, Divine Light: The Stained Glass of England’s Cathedrals.
Janet Gough OBE
Formerly Director of cathedrals and church buildings at the Church of England. Janet studied history and history of art at Cambridge and was awarded an OBE for services to heritage in the New Year’s Honours 2017 and in 2021 she became one of the first lay canons of Bangor Cathedral.
She is an architectural historian and senior heritage manager specialising in historic churches, and has written three books on England's cathedrals and churches.
The Stained Glass
This extraordinary collection spans nearly 850 years, beginning with Canterbury Cathedral's Bible and Miracle Windows – installed following the murder of Thomas Becket in 1170 – and representing every subsequent century in the history of English stained glass. Divine Light encompasses the Middle Ages, the turmoil of the Reformation, the hugely productive long nineteenth century, the Pre-Raphaelites, the Arts and Crafts movement, the creative commissions of the twentieth century, and the innovative and thought-provoking glass being commissioned by cathedrals today. The book traces the connections between the artistic beauty of stained glass, its effectiveness as a narrative medium, and the various technical developments that have shaped the work of practitioners over the centuries. The refraction of light through coloured glass emerges in this fascinating volume as an early form of mass communication that retains its power to move and inspire in the present day.
DIVINE LIGHT
FOLLOW THE JOURNEY
FOLLOW ME ON MY JOURNEY TO PHOTOGRAPH THE CATHEDRALS AND STAINED GLASS
Looking for inspiration for this summer's vacation, or fancy a pre-amble to Janet's book?
I'll be sharing the backstory to my journey to photograph the cathedrals on this project via a WhatsApp group. Digest Tier Members will be sent the information next Wednesday in the Mid-Week-Pick-Me-Up.
If you are not a Tier Member, subscribers can also join the journey via the WhatsApp group. All you need to do is contact me and register your interest and I'll send details out early next week.
Twilight Woody
Andy Marshall
BBC Bitesize
Patrick BarlowBBC News, South East
Steven Morris
Here , in Beverley, I get to develop my light sculpting skills.
And here, in a place of half-light - ideas ignite in a murky soup that verges on alchemy. Here, received light is sculpted, shaped, and transformed into palpable emotion. The remarkable work of stained glass artist, Tom Denny.
Andy Marshall
Andy Marshall
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Andy Marshall
FIND OUT MORE ABOUT JANET GOUGH AND HER BOOK, DIVINE LIGHT
Divine Light will feature glass from every Church of England cathedral and the two royal peculiars, with the windows having been selected by the cathedrals. The book will encourage people to take a look for themselves in our amazing cathedrals across the country – accessible to all and open year-round.
Published by Kulturalis, the illustrated paperback will be available for sale later this year at £14.95. To learn more about Janet and her previously published books on British cathedrals, churches and their treasures visit Janet's website here.
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Photographs and words by Andy Marshall (unless otherwise stated). Most photographs are taken with Iphone 14 Pro and DJI Mini 3 Pro.
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